The nutjobs who made this video that I saw on Andrew Sullivan think it's a tragedy, a horror. I think it's a lovely sign of integration.

Yes, I know I suck. I haven't updated in for-fucking-ever. But the thing is, I'm in agony. Back is sore, neck is sore, shoulder is useless. I'm trying to avoid unnecessary computer time, and about all I can handle is the odd tweet. So I apologize. Don't hate me, and don't stop reading. Please.

I had to take a dozen advil in order to write this post, however. Margot Livesey's the House on Fortune Street is so incredible, so gorgeous, so magnificent that if you don't immediately read it, I don't think you and I can continue to be friends. Get thee to a bookstore. And NO, I do not know the author. I happen to know the editor, but the only reason I know that I know her is that I read the acknowledgments, hoping to find someone I knew in them, so that I could call and weep my gratitude for this incredible novel.